Time moves between the shadows

The universe doesn’t pass time in the moving of seconds,
Instead, the ascending and descending of life events.
First there is birth to the perfect parents.
Not perfectly good or perfectly rich,
hell they might not even be perfectly hitched.
But for purpose sake, the bond is purposefully stitched.
Or un-stitched in some cases.
At a soul level you’ll recognise their faces,
past lives leaves scars, freckles, tiny traces.
Childhood happens, you might be rich you might be poor,
the universe keeps ticking never keeping score,
look around at the beauty, she only wants, that you want more.
For some there is light, for some of us dark
and as the grains of sand slip, we all walk a path,
Living becomes a story that leaves another mark.
Till finally we learn there are lessons at hand,
Life is a map only our souls know the plan,
from the moment of birth when Terra began.
They’ll be tears, they’ll be hurt and boy they’ll be pain,
they’ll be days when we count seconds by the drops of grey rain,
and some of us sadly, will be driven insane.
But alas time must trickle through the portals neck,
as we eat, pray, play, work and slumber in bed,
Till finally we wake, then we are led.
For each soul that wanders for each mind that grows,
lessons are delivered knowledge is sown,
and time passes by in a constant flow.
Some of us lucky our lessons we learn,
twin flames found at the very first turn.
Some of us feel time, feel time, as each second burns,
time hesitates, stammers and screams,
we can’t figure out what the symbols mean,
we can’t make sense of the time that has been.
The universe doesn’t pass time in the beating of hands,
time is explored through our souls and their plans,
some paths we can’t and some paths we can.
Karen Hayward ©2016 (Image and words)

Photo

Atoms folding in

We are all broken
fragments of hope,
scattered tirelessly
through times
path across linear
dimensions
weaving through
planes of existence
here upon Terra.
Poor ageing Terra.

Then Gaia kissed life
into us, the skin
was her canvas
and the scars the
colours as Mother
painted energy
between the deep
rivets adding gentle
brush strokes of
silent hues
and vivid screams
of life.

Her paints run low now,
her waters are dry,
the air dirty,
her creation is
decaying, compromised,
the canvas rotting…

Karen Hayward ©2018

Image via WordPress

Fairytale truths

The wakened
sight of the
blind burning rigidity
into fluidity
through lucidity of mind.
A made up story
of upon a times,
the damsel,
the Princess,
the Queen and her tarts.
The owl is wise at twilight,
the flea upon a beggar,
the mouse,
he creeps,
he crawls he squeals
yet sees it all.
But alas,
his tail is a noose,
the farmers wife
got loose upon
offer of a truce.
You see,
its all a Grim type tale,
blood and guts,
deceit and glory
just another
virtual story.
Gone now is the hole,
The rabbit and Alice
Dreams have become
pixels,
Princes… Pixels
Kings… Pixels
Promises… Pixelated
fantasies,
Imaginary realities
King Ego ruling the roost
the awakened state
the new fairytale truth.

Karen Hayward ©2018
Image found on pinterest

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Would you fry the eggs?
Would you kiss me soft,
and hard when required?
Would you feed me books,
would you allow me
stupidity, verbally,
… let’s call it daftness,
so I can learn?
Would you pull a blanket
over my shoulders as
I sleep?
Would you make my
favourite dinner when
I am sad, when I am happy,
when I am grateful, when
I am needful?
Would you leave me
be to watch old movies,
The Wizard of Oz
and contemporary
remakes,
would you let me talk?
Would you let me keep
my socks on?
No? Would you promise
to keep me warm?
Would you be the man?
The protector? For I am
tired of that role,
Would you let me be the
lady, meek and mild,
soft and gentle,
Would you let me be
the nurturer?
Would you stand at
my side when I am
the lion, fierce and
protective, would you
stay at my side
proudly then?
Would you let me
love you?
In all my abandoned
states of intensity,
passion and raw
quirkiness…
Would you let me love you?

Karen Hayward ©2018
Image and words

Horizons calling…

And all of my
yesterday’s made
my today,
horizon smeared
in the devils mist,
and still the sun
burns through
and verge edges
are promised,
and falling
is a must
I’m sure now
Oblivion can’t
be that deep
and rocks are
never as sharp
as we expect
and beyond that
veil, I can
finally derobe
this battered
armour
and let the sun
warm my skin…

Karen Hayward © 2018
Image found via wordpress library

Pick up the pen
and write the poem,
It’s not rocket science,
It doesn’t have to be a meticulous scribe
Inscripted with archaic
lexicon, the imagery
doesn’t have to paint
a perfect theme,
the rhyme can be
awkward, screwed and
off whack. It doesn’t
have to be unique
or the same. It can
be raw and tough
and bleed from the page
It doesn’t have to
articulate your every
thought that speed
races through your
mind. It doesn’t
have to be as good
as his or her’s
and it doesn’t have
to be liked…
write the
God damn poem,
it isn’t
rocket science.

Karen Hayward ©2019

It’s not rocket science sweety

Dear one I have no business talking too…

It’s not rocket science my sweet…

They decieve us…not man, although they too lie,
I’m talking about books, poems, stories
Love, does not shackle us to endless grey skies,
or cage us behind thick heavy trees.
Love is boundless, without an origin
and missing the tethered rip of an end
alone, is not a facet love will bring
and if it does, my sweet, he is no friend.
Alas, you are caught in despairs whirlwind,
tangled between pain and belief, entrapped
in a splintered labrynth with false King.
Awake now, your golden light has been sapped.
Wait no longer, gather strength and esteem
this is not love, just an endless bad dream.

Karen Hayward 2019

Image via Google search

Media, pedia….


We don’t look like that, do we?
All tanned and toned and
perfectly honed, with matching
knickies, bra and socks…
No not socks, panty hose
swaying frocks, and perfect
thick, fine, curly, straight
long short, natural, dyed locks
And breath.
We don’t look like that. Do we?
Not naturally, surely.
Hell I’m all pale skin
curves not thin
odd socks, hipster pants
and runaway hair, tamed
and flamed, a wild mane.
I suppose I could change.
Paint away my creases
Click away my knobbly knees
Re-root my slither of silver strands
Start wearing, pink, frilly pants
matching lace bras and sheer tights,
nylons, pantyhose…I’d fill them with holes!
We don’t look like that,
really, do we?
Do we? Tell me, do we?
I suppose I could use
lotions and potions
rewind the motions.
such an odd notion.
To be something we are not,
or perhaps we are
perhaps I am wrong
I should adorn a thong
be smooth to the touch
hide away my blemishes
I should embrace the fuss…

…doesn’t really matter
what I think, we grade beauty on
personal perception,
do they think this is real? Banished blemishes,
smoothed out creases,
erased slithers of silver…

..men are daft,
surely, yes.
Do they really care?
Or are they
too busy
toning up
picking vests,
Oiling up
perfect six packs
combing through
Mc dreamy hair
trying also,
to be magazine
best.

Am I wrong?
Should I care?

Karen Hayward © 2018

In the link is 18 images of one woman, photoshopped differently according to culture…

It’s so easy to get caught up thinking women (and men also) look like the images in magazines, or that we should attain to look like them.

Media makes us ashamed of age, growing older, silver/grey hair, stretch marks, extra weight or untoned muscles, that we forget the simplicity of imagery….they’re just meant to look pretty.

Women (and men) do not look like this…but do we know this? Do they know this? Isn’t that where the insecurity lays?

Wishing upon planes thinking they are stars…

From this angle, she see’s the universe,
the infinite promise of light in dark
and ponders if believing is perverse
Like the damned wishing on eternal stars.
likely soon he’ll skin the flesh from her soul
bleed her dry till she’s tender on the tongue
shelling the carcass upon an old knoll
ripping at rotten scars where life had stung.
And she’ll tumble, doe legged into headlights
the scattered remnants of one’s own soldier
fettered to the darkest skies of twilight
falling nude at the hands of her poacher
Perhaps we pander to the passing planes
Thinking them stars, just spectators of shame.

Karen Hayward © 2018
Image found via Pinterest
#sonnet